Ode to the Color of Emeralds
by HobbyHobby
Summary: Alfred, blinded at a young age by a mysterious illness that plagued his body, knows nothing but the darkness. However, he is fascinated by the mystery of colors he will never be able to see...except for one: the everlasting beauty of emerald. UkUs, fluffy (no relationships, just friendships)


Can you tell me what red is? How about green, purple, or yellow? I've heard mom and dad teaching Matthew about those words, but I still don't exactly know what they are. _Colors_ I overheard them say one evening, followed by the incoherent gurgles of my baby brother which he tried to make out into words, _colors are what they are called_. I've always wondered what colors looked like, they must be beautiful, the ways I've heard them paint the world. It has always been hard for me to think of what red, orange, yellow, or blue could look like, since there are really no words to descibe them. Mom told me my eyes used to be blue when I was a baby, that was before they faded into the whites of my eyes, giving the blue a glossed-over, foggy look. The only color I know now is called _black_, or at least I guessed it was, since I'm still unsure of what to call the colors. Black is a lonely tinge, or so I've assumed. It's so unpleasant and so..._empty_. It's all I've known, nothing else. I want to know where that warmth comes from when I step outside, I want to know what that soft cushion I lie on every night is, I want to know what I look like. I want to know _color._

"Freddie, it's time to get up, darling," came my mother's sweet-as-honey voice from nowhere, startling me from my thoughts.

"Okay mom, I'll get up," I huffed, heaving myself out of bed and sitting upright, yawning loudly. My mom always helps me get dressed in the mornings, she's the one who opens the right drawers, picks out my clothes, and buttons or zips up whatever needs to. I'm not sure what she dresses me in, and I, personally, don't care very much, as I can't see it anyway. I felt her weight lift off from the bed, telling me that she had gotten up to get my clothes out. I heard the a drawer beside me open, and a bit of the clothes shifted as she hummed, a habit of hers whenever she was thinking. _She's choosing what I should wear_ I told myself mentally, a little trick I had picked up after not having my sight for so many years now. Hearing a satisfied sigh from her, the sound of the drawer closed, and I heard her nearly silent footsteps come closer, mute from the carpet.

"Alright, lift your arms up in the air so I can change your shirt," she instructed, and I obeyed, raising my arms over my head as I felt my nightshirt being pulled from my body. The morning's chilling air hit my skin, silently praying that she would replace my pajama shirt with the clean one she had picked out. I felt the collar over my head, pulled down over my neck as she guided my arms into the short-sleeved arm holes. I felt her fix my hair a bit, then smooth out the creases I was unable to see on my shirt.

"What color is it today?" I asked, referring to my shirt. It was a common question I asked every morning whenever she helped me dress, curious about the color even though I couldn't see it.

"It's blue today," she told me, "A very dark blue".

"Almost like black?"

"_Almost_," I felt her smiling at me, pulling the blankets from my legs, "Time for the pants, get on your back, honey". I leaned onto my back, feeling her tug off my warm pajama bottoms and briefs, feeling exposed to the cool room tempurature. She shimmied new, clean boxer-shorts onto my hips, and I helped her out by pulling them the rest of the way up. Next came the pants, so I lifted my bottom so that she could get them all the way up to my thighs, where I tugged them on the rest of the way. The pants ended just below my knee, feeling as she leaned over me to button up my trousers.

"They're short," I told her, "These pants are short".

"The weather's supposed to be warm today, Al. You'd be too hot with normal pants," she explained to me, hearing one of the buttons snap into place as my shorts became tighter around my waist.

"It feels cold to me...are you sure?" I asked for reassurance, feeling another button snap into place, along with the sound of a zipper being pulled up it's track.

"Positive, now, sweetheart, I need you to get up and head to the table," she gave me her final regards before I felt her warming presence in the room leave, the door beginning to close, but never got all of the way. Mom thinks I'm old enough to get around the house on my own now, as long as the ground isn't scattered with Matthew's toys or small, plastic Lego bricks, which is the absolute most _painful _thing to have squished into the bottom of your bare foot. I learned to feel my way around, and I know where most of the walls are now so I don't usually run into them._ Usually._

I could hear Matthew's cooes from the dining room, following the sound and trailing the strong, bitter scent of mt dad's everyday morning coffee. I knew I was there when I heard someone's chewing stop, a fork hitting the side of a plate, and a chair being scooted away from the table.

"Hey son, how was your sleep?" Dad's happy voice came, which slightly lifted my spirits. My dad wasn't this happy in the mornings, especially on Mondays; maybe something good happened for him at work.

"It was okay," I smiled back, unsure if it was straight or crooked, even my own mouth wasn't positibe about it's own actions.

I felt myself being pulled into a warm, bear hug, as my mother liked to call them, slowly snaking my arms around his broad shoulders. Just a few few away, I heard Matthew starting to fuss, dad's warm arms leaving me to attend to my brother. I noticed that I was probsbly facing him, knowing that was what made him start up a fit. "I was staring again, wasn't I?" I asked to whoever heard me, feeling my way over to the dining table. Sometimes I forget to blink, and with nearly all white eyes, it occasionally scares Matthew so badly that he begins to cry. It scares some of my cousins too, whenever they do come over. Last month, at Christmas, I could hear one of them, who I assumed was James, complaining to my mom in another room about how I stared at him, and how much it "gave him the creeps". They thought I couldn't hear them, but my hearing has become a lot more advanced since my vision is impared.

"You were, but don't worry about it, buddy," my dad was the first to answer, hearing Matthew's two-year-old hums of discomfort die down a bit. "He'll understand when he's older, just eat your breakfast, alright Fred?". I nodded slowly, feeling the heat from the warm plate in frotn of my steam up into my face. I felt around on the left side of the plate, where mom usually put the forks and knives. Eventually, my fingers brushed across a smooth, untouched metal, and I moved my fingers along it to feel what the tip was like, to know whether it was a knife or fork. To my luck, the tip was pointed with three prongs, allowing me to eat the scrambled eggs from my plate easily.

I heard the gentle click of my mother's shoes enter the room, followed by the clank of a plate being set on the table, which I assumed was her plate. I felt a sudden aura, and assumed that someone had their eyes on me, "So, Freddie..." she began, proving my assumption correct, "You told me you were going to learn how to read in school sometime soon, aren't you excited?". Oh, that was right, Miss Héderváry said that she would bring an aid to class on Monday to help teach them braile. I'm not exactly thrilled to be learning how to read with my fingers, since the entire concept just sounds ridiculous. Do they even have bookstores for the blind? Where am I supposed to find a book written in braile even if I do learn to read it? "I guess so...".

After the short conversation with mom, I didn't really have much of an apetite, just stabbing the eggs with my fork, staring into nothingness.

.o〇o.

I usually sit in the backseat whenever dad drives me to school. Matthew sits in his car seat next to me, and sometimes he likes to reach out and grab my shirt just to stuff it in his mouth, or at least I think he does, judging by the wet spots I can feel on my shirt sometimes. It really is torture having a baby brother and not being able to look at him, especially since whenever we bring him somewhere, people always coddle with him and brag about how cute he is and how he's such an angel. I wish I could have a picture of him in my head, since I'm pretty sure he is as adorable as people constantly say.

"Mom? What does Mattie look like?" I suddenly asked, leaning the side of my head against the seatbelt, waiting for a response as I stared out of the car window, engulfed in the darkness, only able to hear and feel.

"Matthew? Well, the bit of hair he has on his head looks almost like yours, just a bit curlier...I can't really describe how he looks, he's still a baby," Mom tried to answer as best as she could, already allowing me to draw a picture in my mind. But still, one detail was missing.

"What color are his eyes? Are they blue like how mine used to be?" I wondered aloud, curiously stroking Matthew's hair, making sure to be gentle. It did feel a bit wavy, unlike mine, which felt straight whenever I ran my fingers through it.

"His eye color?" she repeated to herself, as though she wasn't sure, "Well, they certainly are an interesting shade, almost like a mix of purple and blue".

_Purple_ was a color that wasn't as frequently mentioned as red, blue, green, or yellow, so I think Matthew probably has the most amazing, unique eyes out of everyone.

I felt the car's wheels slow their rapid rotation, slower and slower until we came to a stop with a short jolt. My dad was the first to open the door, I knew because a weight was suddenly lifted from the driver's side of the car. Then suddenly, my car door opened and the all-too familiar scent of pine drifted into the car. I knew we were at my school, since the academy is surrounded by pine trees, or so my mother has told me.

"We're here, let's take you inside," I heard my dad's voice come from the darkness, hearing him lean over me to unbuckle my seat belt with a soft click. I felt the restraining belt pull back into the seat, allowing for me to step out of the car cautiously. Dad always walks me into the main building where we check in. My school technically isn't an educational facility, but a hospital that provides programs for kids with disabilities, like a "special kids" school, as I've heard people call it; although I'm not sure how it's special having a physical or mental disability. The building is called the Mariam Children's Hospital, a name I've heard hundreds of times over the years ever since I was first enrolled when I was around two or three years old. I come here at least five times a week just for my "special" education, so I recognize the voices of most of the staff here already. Nonetheless, it still makes me wonder how I can know a place so well without even seeing it.

I felt my dad's strong hand on my shoulder, guiding me inside as I heard the sliding sound of the automatic doors. The strong, sanitized odor was overwhelming, stinging my nose as the powerful scent of rubbing alhocol hit me. I don't think I'll ever become used to these hospital smells.

"Good morning Mr. Jones, Alfred," came a humble, dulcet voice, automatically recognizing it as Miss Braginskya's voice, or Kat, as she let's me call her for a nickname, instead of Katyusha. Kat is from Ukraine, sometimes she even tells me stories about her childhood living there, about the weather and how it was probably snowing heavily around this time in mid-January, and even about her stepbrother and stepsister, Natalia and Ivan. Kat has been my personal nurse for about seven years now, ever since my old nurse moved back to her home somewhere in Chicago seven summers ago. Despite her just being my nurse, I think Kat and I have more of a bond than just patient and assistant. I remember last July, she made me a cupcake for my twelfth birthday, which was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me at Mariam.

"Hi Kat, is class gonna start soon?" I asked, smiling at her face I couldn't picture, but I knew it was there.

"Sure is, you've got 7 minutes to get there," she chriped in her supple, yet very large-sounding voice.

"I guess it's time for me to take my leave, have a good day, Al," I felt my dad's smile, followed by a one-armed hug. I didn't have enough time to hug him back, his body's warmth quickly leaving me as I heard the automatic doors slide open and closed in an instant. "Bye dad..." I muttered mostly to myself rather than my absent father. I sat there quietly, waiting for Kat to make her wat from around the front desk and help me to the elevator.

"Hi Freddie, how was your weekend?" she cooed, taking my hand and leading me left, where the elevators were. "It was okay," I answered plainly, too tired to really think, "Mom and dad are teaching Matthew more colors".

Kat stopped walking after a few more steps, hearing her press a button that lowered the elevators to the main floor for us to get in.

"He sure is growing up fast...isn't he?"

"Uh-huh, but I still think he's scared of the way I stare at him"

"It'll pass, he's still just a baby"

"Yeah..."

.o〇o.

The name of the program I to to as school is called "Judith's Special Education" or JSE for short. Me and a few other kids in my group call it "Jessie" because if you say JSE really fast it sounds like that name. It's sort of become our own slang term for the organization, and sometimes it slips out when we talk to the program to other people. There are about ten kids in my group, but I only really know three of them as my friends: Francis, Lovino, and Tino.

I met Francis four years ago when he first joined our group, paralyzed from the neck down from some freak car accident he was involved in. He doesn't like to talk about it much, since the entire experience was pretty terrifying for him. His little sister died, I think, and his mom is still in a coma, and that's all I've gotten out of him in four years. Lovino and I get along every now and then, you just have to know when to stay away from him and when it's okay to talk. Lovino has never told me anything about the condition he's in personally, but whenever his younger brother comes with his mom and dad, that little chatterbox practically told me everything. Every now and then, Lovino gets these random seizures, which made sense to me became every other day, I would hear teachers stopping what they were doing all around and rush to go help him and get him stable. I'm not sure what happened to him, or of he was just born that way, but it must be serious enough for him to be put in a special education program. Then there's Tino, who's blind, just like me. I talk to Tino the most, whenever Francis isn't around, pulling me into perverted conversations I'd rather not take part in. Tino's somebody I can relate to the most, since we both can't see and we both suffered from the same, mysterious illness that the doctors still can't figure out to this day. We spend most of our time together, talking about what most people would think to be boring, like shapes, colors, and the invisible world around us. In fact, Tino was the one who told me about colors in the first place; about how they decorated the world with vibrant shades that he couldn't imagine.

_But there's one color_ he told me one day, sitting and eating our lunch together _that is all of the colors combined._

_It's called a rainbow_

How breath-taking.


End file.
